


i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

by oh_so_loverly



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, District Four, Drabble, F/M, Hazards of Love universe, LoveInPanem, Odesta, One Shot, Pre-Canon, Valentine's Day 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6004462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_so_loverly/pseuds/oh_so_loverly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pre-canon one-shot of Finnick and Annie's anniversary, known in the Capitol as Valentine's Day.</p><p>[Obviously, I do not own The Hunger Games, nor the characters in it.]</p><p>(not 100% happy, oops!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

Chest is curled up to knees, arms wrapped around them like a protective blanket. A shift to her right draws Annie’s attention out of the reverie of day dreaming. The ocean out beyond their wide-opened windows kisses and washes out the sandy shore.

It is quiet.

That should be enough.

 _Should_ be, _would_ be, _can’t_ be.

Instead, the biting thoughts come, unbidden, and Annie squeezes her eyes shut for a time.

_Steady, concentrate, breathe._

Fingers curl tight, around opposing upper arms, until the press of pressure does something more than rest.

The problem is, reality, in this moment, does very little.  


The deep blue-black blanket of night has drawn in. Pricked and bitten, until hot glows of far-off life might wink and blink, the sheathing begins its dance across till morning. The brusque evening air is substantially warmer than other regions would be, at this time of year. Instead of relishing in the thought, it sends goosepimples down Annie’s spine, and hands falter slightly.

Anniversary.

Should be a happy occasion. 

Instead, the other half of _FinnickandAnnie_ is away. 

Away until further notice.

Annie remembers, how Bo had taken his girlfriend out to get some coke-n-nuts at the nicest sweets shoppe a poor, sixteen-year-old boy could afford.

 _Well, we don’t have the lack of funds now,_ Annie muses. _We are wealthy, aren’t we?_

This is the season, in the Capitol, they celebrate some sort of love holiday, with chocolates and sparkly things. ‘Trinkets,’ which would cost a fisherman a good month’s salary, if not a lifetime to afford.

_The Capitol._

It makes her cringe, and she stares at a fixed point in the floor, tries to dull her mind until it aches something less than utter heartbreak.

It shouldn’t.

He hasn’t broken her heart.

_And yet…_

A sigh escapes, and head shakes back and forth, as if to dislodge the ugly thoughts rooted there.

Pushing herself up, Annie heads to the kitchen, turning the television’s sound back up on her way. It does not actually turn all the way down- Annie suspects that, despite the volume reading being ‘0,′ the very basics of the damned thing are intended to keep the lies and vicious screams _and slices and cuts and clashes–_

“Stop, stop,” Annie whispers, shaking her head again.

Dumb things, earlier, like Finnick Odair and an heiress- _has he met his match?_ And those coy, cruel lies seeping out of his lips with disturbing ease, disturbing apathy.

 _He loves me, though._ She repeats it until it seems like something a little better than make-believe, but it still stinks of the intangible.

Anniversary. It must translate in some ancient language to a joke. He had not said anything before he left, and no one has mentioned it here. Maybe it never happened.

“Make something,” she thinks she says. It makes her laugh, a bit, because, it is not as if anyone is around to give her that curious (accusatory) look.

She could recite herself one of the silly things from one of those silly books sent to Finnick, but the thought, today, makes her sick _and sick and–_

A knock on the door makes her jump, despite the softness (and distance) of it. Annie whirls around, carefully approaching the doorway to the front foyer. Across (ugly) fancy polished floorboards, the door is unlocked, side windows abutting it drawn tightly, as Annie was wont to leave them.

She holds her breath, staring at the thick mahogany barrier. Nothing. No sounds. Silence.

A nervous laugh escapes, though she presses her fingertips to her lips, to try and quell it, in shame. About to turn away, the knock sounds again, and Annie freezes up, a slight shake to her hands, which she tries to hide. Hide from what, she does not know, but hiding insanity is pretty important. Unless, of course, you’re meant to act it out and _out_ and _up_ and _down_ and _left_ and _right_ and _well how else are we meant to appease those interested?_

Funny, funny, how the question was rhetorical yet they were made to answer it, as if it were sincere.

The doorknob twists, the lightest of groans as the metal _(copper? is it copper? that would go for a fair price back in Pesca)_ protests. Annie wonders if she is seeing in slow motion, or if the world has turned to a Games replay, slow and brutal and drawn-out more than anything ought to be. The frame’s proximity to one side of the door widens, a gap slowly permitting the halos of yellowish porch and street light to seep in. And, in silhouette to the outdoor menagerie, stands a particular figure. Bronze, tan, seagreen eyes. Nice, respectable sweater and trousers, with nice, respectable shoes.

But, it is off. 

Not because of the clothing. Attire could come or go or cover him till nothing but his eyes show, that’s not what is important.

It is _him_ that is off.

Annie stares as he enters the house, shuts the door behind him. He slides his jacket off, hanging it on the coat hook. He looks around a bit, opens lips (pretty lips for a pretty boy) before his eyes settle. They settle on her, and something like a chill makes her square her shoulders. Only, it isn’t a chill.

It’s warmth.

Warmth in eyes that appraise with something beseeching; that reflects and expresses itself in a small smile. A private smile.

She feels like he must be confused.

“Annie,” he murmurs. His voice is hoarse, and she knows, if the stylists and makeup artists weren’t so good, the rest of him would look as worn as he sounds.

He steps towards her.

Annie takes a step back. This makes him stop, and green eyes widen.

“What’s wrong?”

Always, the worst assumption. _Always,_ with him. 

Annie takes a deep breath, tries to steady herself.

“Nothing, I…,” Annie pauses a moment, tries to get the words right. “Didn’t think you’d be back.”

She should say ‘so soon,’ but, honestly, she means it ten different ways 'til Sunday.

A furrow forms in his brow. Hurt, he is hurt. His body language is beginning to slump, and it pains her into action.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

He nods, but it is mute, and his eyes do not meet hers.

 _I hurt him,_ Annie thinks.

She crosses the room, reaching out and taking his hand in hers. His head dips, chin tucked ever-so-slightly to neck, until his forehead rests against her own. He inhales deeply, and she presses herself against him, reassuring herself with the gravity, the foundation of him, of reality. It is not just for her, no. Hands unlace, in order to wrap around one another, curl tighter. They stand like that for some time, before his lips press against her cheek.

“I missed you.” His voice is shaky. His grip tightens.

“I missed you,” Annie returns, before leaning back slightly. Her hands cup his chin, softly tracing the contours and angles and muscles.

He is here, but sometimes she wonders if they will ever be in the same place, at the same time.

“I have something for you,” Finnick states, when Annie’s hands slide away from him. His fingers brush her hair from her cheek, thumb lingering on her cheek.

“Do you?” Annie asks, a curious smile slowly appearing on her lips.

Finnick nods, before pulling away, reaching into his shirt pocket. An inch-wide, diamond-shaped case rests in his palm. It looks made of jade stones. Annie blinks, carefully tracing the jade, which defines itself against her fingertips. Annie swallows, before frowning up at Finnick.

“It’s very pretty,” she offers.

He usually does not accept presents from his patrons. The last thing Annie wants is something from one of them; but, neither does she wish to insult him.

A weary smile looks nearly comical, in contrast to the somewhat-wild look in his eyes.

“But why did you get me a box?”

“Open it,” Finnick says, gently.

Annie hesitates a moment, before she does. She glances up at him, trying to read his expression as she undoes the box’s silver clasp, and pops the top back. Inside, a velvet lining surrounds a small, silver ring.

Rings are a Capitol tradition. Everything begins to shake, and Annie steps back.

“Finnick, I dont…” Annie gulps, audibly, staring at the ring as if it will reach out and bite her. “Understand, what’s- what is that?”

“It’s a ring,” he replies, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yes, I see that.” Annie’s eyes flick up to meet Finnick’s. “Why are you giving it to me?”

Finnick’s lips quirk to the side, that familiar expression of being either mildly amused, or mildly annoyed. _Either_ and  _neither._

He tugs the ring from the box, snapping the jade shut, and laying the case over on a sidetable. The ring, on the other hand, he holds between thumb and forefinger, taking her hand and carefully sliding the circle onto her left ring finger. 

A simple piece of string would be better.

“I don’t-”

“I know, we can’t,” Finnick’s voice is soft, and Annie notices the way he checks the walls in her house.

It is not exactly a secret, that Snow spies on ninety-nine-percent of their lives. But, technically speaking, they have never had a confirmation either which way, where their homes’ interiors are concerned.

“It’ll give us something to hold onto.”

Annie nods, slowly, but swallows heavily. The ring feels something more like a weight, and she wonders if this, too, might have some sort of spyware, something to keep Snow on her trail. Finnick leans in, lips against her earlobe.

“I had it made.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a moment. He pulls away, and their eyes meet again. “Look inside.”

Annie slides the ring off of her finger, holding it up in front of her eyes. Holding it at an angle, to let the light hit it right, she reads the date, and stops to glance up at him.

“Happy anniversary,” he says, smiling again. It is less weary not, but somewhat apprehensive.

“Thank you,” Annie murmurs. 

She moves to press a kiss to his cheek, but he catches her lips with his own, the kiss urgent, and deep. When it finally breaks, Annie curls her arms around his neck.

Thumb presses the ring to do circles around her finger. The repetition, and embrace of Finnick, bring a comfort to her. They make the house a home again.

Warmth seeps and sows and wraps around them both.

_You have my heart._

And, for now, it is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thankyou so much for reading! I hope you enjoy and any comments/crit./etc. are always appreciated! This drabble is also posted on Tumblr and Fanfic.net, in case you're wondering!  
> I know I'm faaarfar behind on updating my other works, BUT this week is my birthday week! and schools have/will be closed so life's going to be a bit nutty on my end!  
> If you're waiting on Closer / Hazards of Love updates, I promise they are in the works, and thank you so much for bearing with me. <3


End file.
